


One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, You Fish

by kekinkawaii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Castiel is Good With Children (Supernatural), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28546074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii
Summary: The fog cleared in Cameron's hazel eyes. “Oh! You want tokisshim!”Oh, sweet Jesus. “Yeah,” Dean said weakly. Dismayed. God, where was this kid’s parents?(In which kids make the best wingmen.)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 19
Kudos: 115





	One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, You Fish

Dean was in the library trying to find Player Piano between all the other Vonnegut books he’d already read before, because no matter what Sam said, he did actually read from time to time—yes, Sammy, the ones _without_ the pictures—when his phone rang. He cringed as Angus Young shredded through the opening chords of Thunderstruck, woefully unaware of the dirty looks Dean immediately received from the other library visitors, and quickly ducked into an open study room.

Recognizing the ringtone, Dean mumbled  _ Speak of the devil  _ and pressed to receive the call.

“You’ve got the best timing,” he said sweetly, sarcastically.

“Sorry,” Sam said, not sounding very sorry at all. “Should I call later?”

Dean sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and looked out through the glass panels of the windows to watch a young girl practically climb the bookshelves to reach a book. “Nah,” he settled on. “What’s up? Everything okay?”

“Yeah. M’good. I just called you to let you know that I finished my finals this morning.”

“Oh, yeah! How’d they go?”

“Um, pretty well, I think,” Sam said, which in Samspeak pretty much meant that he aced it. He’d once rung up Dean in the middle of a shift (Dean had nearly banged his head on the bottom of the car he was working on) and proceeded to spend half of Dean’s precious break wailing about how he’d  _ failed, just completely bombed  _ his Politics midterm, only to call him back two days after, sheepishly declaring that he’d gotten an A. Room for improvement, Dean had joked, and Sam had sighed and went  _ Yeah  _ like Dean was actually being serious. What a huge fucking nerd. 

So Dean raised his eyebrows and whistled. “What’s the celebration plan?”

Sam paused. “Nothing much,” he lied.

“You’re totally lying,” Dean said.

“What? No!”

“C’mon, you can tell me,” Dean coaxed, honey-sweet. “Dinner? Party? Club? Strippers?”

“No! Gross!” Sam’s outrage was leaking through the speakers and wafting out into the room. To reiterate: huge fucking nerd.

“Then what? There’s gotta be  _ something.”  _ Dean blinked, and a smarmy smile spread across his face. “Wait. You finally asked Jess out, didn’t you?”

Sam’s silence was answer enough, and Dean gave a quick look around to make sure no one in the library was watching before pumping his fist in the air. “Hell yeah, Sammy,” he said.

“It’s just dinner,” Sam groused, but there was a smile in his voice. “I didn’t even ask her properly yet.”

“Dude,” Dean said, “you’re totally in. Last time I visited she was practically drooling over you. She didn’t even fall to my irresistible charms.”

“Dude,” Sam said, “you did the hot coffee thing. The hot coffee thing never works.”

“Bullshit. Only reason it didn’t work was because, like I said, she was way too into you to even notice. I’m serious, Sam, go and get her before someone else can swoop in and snatch her up.”

“She’s not an object,” Sam said peevishly, and oh boy, he really was into this Jess girl, wasn’t he, “and I’m waiting until she’s comfortable enough to make the first move.”

“Aw, what a gentleman,” Dean deadpanned. “Well, let’s hope that’s sooner rather than later. I swear, man, you’ve been studying 24/7 for months on end, it’s a miracle you haven’t gone insane yet. A little relaxation won’t kill you.”

“That’s rich, coming from you. When was the last time you took an off day?”

Dean opened his mouth to respond, realized that he couldn’t remember (he wasn’t sick, disabled, or on the verge of death, why the fuck would he need to take an off day?) and shut it again. “I get plenty of downtime,” he argued.

“And what about a girlfriend, then?” Sam nagged. “Or boyfriend? When was the last time you actually had a proper, long-term relationship?”

“Ongoing for six weeks, actually,” Dean said.

“What—wait, really?”

“My Baby,” Dean said proudly. “She’s my pride and joy. A real beauty. Purrs like an angel. Electric-choke carburetor.”

Sam bitchfaced so hard Dean could see it projected through the speakers. “Someone that isn’t a  _ vehicle.” _

“Nag, nag, nag,” Dean said. “Sammy, don’t worry, I’m all fine and dandy over here. You just go on and do your own thing with your fancy-shmancy law degree and your out-of-your-league girlfriend and mind your own damn business, yeah?”

“Right,” Sam scoffed. “All I’m saying is, you sound like a bit of a hypocrite, Dean.”

“Whatever,” Dean said, and then he saw a nerdy-looking teen making his way towards the Vonnegut section and pursed his lips. “Anyway, I gotta go.”

“Alright,” Sam said. “Bye, Dean.”

“Have fun with your date,” Dean said loudly, and ended the call before Sam could deny it.

Maybe Dean teased the hell out of Sam whenever humanly possible, but he felt genuine pride in his chest as he tucked his phone back into his pocket. Good on him, getting a girlfriend, but there was no point in him worrying about  _ Dean  _ of all people. Dean was a go-getter; he saw what he wanted and went for it.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by a loud thudding noise.

The girl who had been halfway up the bookshelves was now all the way back down, curled up into a ball on the carpet and cradling her knee with both hands. Oops. At least she’d gotten the book, though, sprawled indelicately a few feet next to her.

“Hey,” Dean said, changing his path to approach her instead. Vonnegut could wait. “You okay?”

The girl looked up, brown eyes watery. “Yeah,” she said, and sniffled. “Sorry.”

“Aw, hell,” Dean mumbled before he realized that he probably shouldn’t have sworn in front of a kid. “C’mon, kid,” he said, extending a hand to help her up. “What’s your name?”

She dusted off her knees. “Amy,” she mumbled, shy.

“Hi, Amy,” Dean said, giving her a small smile. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Satisfied, Dean turned around to scrabble for the book that had fallen down along with her.

Turning back around, he said, “Deathly Hallows, huh?” Sam had been obsessed with that series. Dean remembered being dragged along to the new book releases—at least, up until  _ Cursed Child  _ came out and Sam had been so distraught and stricken with the apparently-unacceptable plotlines that the words  _ Harry Potter _ from that day on held the same connotations in the Winchester household as the word  _ Voldemort. _

“I love Harry Potter,” said a new voice. Dean froze.

“Oh, hi, Cas,” he said, and his voice absolutely did  _ not  _ squeak.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said. He reached out and took the book from Dean’s now-slack grip (their fingers, much to Dean’s disappointment, did not brush) and then handed it to Amy. 

“Thank you,” Amy mumbled.

“You’re very welcome,” Castiel said. “I’m a Hufflepuff. What about you?”

Amy looked up, and her eyes were bright. “I’m a Hufflepuff too!” 

“That’s wonderful,” Castiel said. “Are you excited to read the last book?”

Amy nodded vigorously. “Except it’s not really the last book,” she explained. “There’s still  _ Cursed Child.” _

Castiel winced, just a little. “Ah, yes. Why don’t you go get your book checked out, then, so you can go home and read it as soon as possible?”

“Okay!” Amy beamed at Castiel and Dean, and darted away, fall long forgotten and book clutched in her arms.

Castiel watched Amy. Dean watched Castiel, and saw that he was wearing his bookworm tie today (quite literally—it was emblazoned with books and worms equally against a stark-red backdrop) and that his blazer-slash-vest was a dark navy blue that was nearly, but not quite, the exact same shade as his eyes—which, sometime during Dean’s sudden and unprecedented transformation into a lovestruck teenage girl, were now looking directly at him.

“Heya, Cas,” Dean said again.

Castiel smiled. “How are you today, Dean?”

“Great,” Dean said.  _ Better now that I saw you.  _ “How was work?”

“Not over yet,” Castiel said, making a face. 

“Got any plans for when it  is  over?” Dean said, because he was cool and casual and suave like that.

“Not particularly,” Castiel hummed. “I did go on a date this weekend, though.”

Dean said, “Oh, really? How did it go?” and then shut up before he could shove his foot further down his own throat and say something entirely out of the picture like  _ Who was it _ and _ Don’t go out with them, go out with me instead I’m better I swear. _

Castiel grimaced. “Terrible,” he confessed. “He was rude to the waitress and didn’t tip. We were supposed to watch a movie after, but I ended the date early.”

Dean waited for a moment to make sure that if he opened his mouth the words  _ Fuck yes  _ wouldn’t immediately rocket out of him, and then he said, “Good,” and wanted to die anyway. “I meant  good  as in good for you sticking up for yourself. Not good as in good that it happened. I’m very sorry that it happened.”

Castiel shrugged. “It was a blind date, so I didn’t have much hope, anyway.”

Dean nodded, a little too fast. “But there are lots of fish in the sea, y’know? All kinds.” His eyes caught on a Dr. Seuss book proudly displayed upon a shelf. “Red fish, blue fish,” he rambled nonsensically.

“Rainbow fish?” Castiel said, raising an eyebrow. Dean had a feeling he was teasing him but he didn’t care.

“Yes,” Dean said emphatically, pointing a finger at him.  _ “Lots  _ of rainbow fish.”

Castiel nodded again. The corner of his lips tugged as if he was trying to hide a smile, and the sight of it made Dean’s chest swell and tumble.

“That’s comforting,” Castiel said. “Well, it was lovely talking to you again, Dean, but I think I spot someone lined up at the front desk.”

“Of course,” Dean said quickly. “I’ll, um, get going then.”

Castiel crinkled his eyes at Dean and Dean felt his breath catch like a patient going into cardiac arrest. Jesus, maybe standing in the Teen Fiction section was brainwashing him. “I’ll see you later, Dean.”

“See ya,” Dean said, and watched Castiel walk away, trying hard not to watch how his dark-pressed slacks fitted him just  _ perfectly. _

(Dean was a go-getter; he saw what he wanted and went for it.)

Yeah, right, Dean thought morosely, and trudged out the library.

He had gone through one of the two finely-diced onions he needed for the marsala curry he was making for dinner when his phone vibrated in his pocket and Led Zeppelin’s crooning filled the room.

He recognized the ringtone as the one programmed for Mom, this time, and took an extra moment to wash his hands and swig a glass of water (last time he answered the phone with his voice even remotely hoarse, he’d been instructed to bedrest and two doses of Emergen-C) before pressing to receive the call.

“Yeah, Mom,” he said.

“Dean! How are you?” 

“Good,” Dean replied. “What’s up?”

“I just got off the phone with Sam,” came the cheerful reply. “He told me about his finals.”

“Oh, right.” Dean paced up and down his kitchen, throwing the lone leftover onion up into the air and catching it as he went. “What’d he say?”

“He said it ‘went okay’. Which means—”

“That he aced it,” Dean finished, and smiled. “Yeah, he told me that, too. He called me earlier today.”

“His brother over his mother,” she tsk-ed without heat. “But if he called you earlier, that means I know something you don’t know.”

Dean perked up. “What?”

“His little date with Jessica.”

Dean nearly fumbled the onion. He placed it safely back on the counter, deciding to save himself the risk of cleaning up hundreds and hundreds of tiny onion peels from the floor later on. (Never again.)

“Really?” he said, nearly vibrating with the effort to keep his voice casual.

“Dean Winchester,” his mother said, and Dean could just hear her eye roll and see her smile—his chest suddenly ached with how much he missed her. “We both know you want all the juicy details.”

Dean grinned. “It’s my sworn duty as the big brother.” Piqued, now, with all that energy and nowhere for it to go, he meandered back to the cutting bored and started to attempt chopping up the onion with only one hand. “Out with it, then.”

“Let’s just say that Sam will be bringing her home for our next family gathering.”

Dean whooped, punctuating it with an especially-dramatic swing of the knife, where it sank neatly into the onion three-quarters of the way. “That’s awesome, Mom.”

“Let’s just hope your father doesn’t bring out the shotgun,” was the bemused reply, and Dean barked a laugh. “Who was that girl from high school again? Stacy?”

“Stella,” Dean said, recalling dark-brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. “Sam sulked for three days.”

“Oh, yes. Like a kicked puppy.”

“Let’s see how Jess holds up to all of us, then,” Dean said, already looking forward to annoying the hell out of her and Sam both.

His mother hummed, and then said, “Hey, Dean?” in the same tone of voice she’d use right after getting off the phone with the principal to be informed that Dean had been caught in the storage closet with Rhonda Hurley, who was a year older, or that Dean had skipped Algebra for the fourth time that week to play dodgeball at the gym, or that or that Dean had been caught in the janitor’s office with Benny Lafitte, who was a transfer student and  _ two _ years older.

“What now?” Dean grumbled.

“When are you going to bring home someone? I’m just saying,” she barrelled on before Dean could interrupt, “You’ve never even  _ had  _ anyone for John to threaten, because you’ve never even bothered to introduce them to us.”

“Mom,” Dean mumbled, feeling, of all things, like he was fifteen and being scolded for shattering their best china after trying to climb up the cabinets again. “C’mon now.”

“I’m only wondering,” his mother responded. “I’m not one to judge, but are you saying that there isn’t anyone? Even  _ Sam  _ has a girlfriend, now, and we both know how nerdy that boy is, all day his nose buried in a book—”

A book, Dean thought, and then his mind haphazardly daisy-chained together a dozen thoughts in a split second that resulted in him opening up his mouth and saying, “I do have a boyfriend, actually. His name’s Cas.”

“Oh,” his mother said, stunned.  _ “Oh.  _ Oh!”

Oh shit, Dean thought.

“How long have you been together?”

“Three months,” Dean lied, remembering how, three months ago, he’d finally caved and walked into the library to register a library card and was greeted by Castiel Novak at the front desk, wearing a  _ sweater vest  _ of all things, which had absolutely no right looking as hot on him as it did—it was a fucking sweater vest, for fuck’s sake—and love at first sight wasn’t real but Dean’s heart had skipped a beat anyway. 

“That long! What does he do?”

“He’s a librarian,” Dean said. Ever since that day, Dean had been consistently stopping by at the library on his way home from the autoshop. Castiel had turned out to be a huge sci-fi geek and classic literature fan and history guru all at once, and seemed to be able to make a comment on the book Dean was borrowing no matter what genre it was. If Dean was lucky, he’d catch him while reshelving books—that way, he was able to pass under the guise of  _ helping  _ and get to talk to Cas for as long as it took.

“Is he nice? Is he handsome?”

“I guess,” Dean fidgeted. He’d initially seen Castiel as quiet and solemn, but quickly realized that he secretly possessed a wicked, whip-sharp sense of humour that had the power to knock Dean down on his knees. He was so  _ interesting  _ that Dean could just listen to him talk for hours on end. He was crazy smart, too, and so damn passionate. Dean never thought hearing someone speak about the effects of Virginia Woolf on feminist literature today could be so hot.

“How did you ask him out?”

“I—just asked,” Dean evaded. Truth was, Dean couldn’t think of an excuse elaborate enough to justify staying at the library for long, so all their conversations were limited to hushed, lowered lines in between bookshelves, or while Castiel scanned Dean’s weekly checkouts. Dean ignored the alarmingly Sam-like voice in his head that reasoned that this would not be a hindrance if Dean literally just asked him out. To lunch, to dinner. Hell, even just as a friend. But Dean  _ really  _ liked this guy—more than he had with anyone—and every time he tried to say the words, they’d get swallowed up and stuck in his throat and wouldn’t come unstuck until he was walking right out those library doors, another missed chance.

“Where does he live? Does he have any siblings? Where is he from?”

“Oh, shit!” Dean said loudly. “I’m so sorry, I completely forgot about the chicken! It’s burning, Mom, I gotta go!”

_ “Dean—” _ His mother got far enough to say, exasperation dripping, before Dean pressed  _ End call  _ and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

Dean turned back to the lone onion and yanked the knife out from its abdomen. With a slight simmering of panic, he began to dice it up into uneven pieces while revisiting the scotch-taped framework of his logic.

So what if Cas wasn’t actually his boyfriend? The next big holiday was months away, and by then, Dean could just tell them that he and Cas had unfortunately broken up.

It was all going to be fine. Dean was going to finish making his dinner, and then he was going to curl up with a good book and forget about it.

And then Dean remembered that he had completely forgotten to take out the book at the library, and he said  _ Shit  _ out loud and then his knife slipped and onion juice squirted straight into his eye and he said  _ Goddamn fuck bastard  _ and hopped over to the sink, half-blind, and he actually did forget about it, if only for a moment.

The marsala turned out way too salty, but bearable with an ice-cold bottle of beer. Dean carried the plate over to the couch and ate it while watching a rerun of some Spanish soap opera he couldn’t understand (there was something about a sister, and something about a wife, and something about a goat in the bathroom which was so dramatically and awfully edited Dean thought he was going to get a seizure. Funny, though.) 

After the dishes were washed and the pots and pans were put away and he had nothing to busy his hands with anymore, he sat back down on the couch for all of three seconds before his mind started buzzing like a beehive poked with a stick.

“Fuck,” he said heavily, and went to grab his car keys.

It was for the book. Of course it was for the book. He needed his evening entertainment, after all, and consistently reading literature was good for an active mind, and Vonnegut was always a pleasant and exciting read.

Of course, that was all bullshit, and the moment Dean walked into the library his eyes immediately began to search for Cas. For some reason, there was an influx of kids, and Dean dodged one of them as they ran past him, giggling and shouting.

He checked the S to V Adult Fiction shelves anyway, because why not while he was here, and emerged empty-handed. He remembered that lanky, nerdy-looking kid from earlier and hoped he was having a grand old time.

“It’s starting, it’s starting!” an exhausted-looking father urged, tugging two twin brothers across the floor, one in each hand.

“I want  _ ice cream,”  _ one of them wailed.

“I want  _ ice cream,”  _ the other one echoed immediately.

The father glanced up and noticed Dean watching, both of them briefly exchanging a wince and an apologetic look.

“Okay, okay,” the father said, lowering his voice into a soothing lilt, “but look! Who’s that over there?”

He pointed dramatically, so full of wonder that Dean found his head swivelling along with the twins. 

Over at the Children’s Centre, a group of kids along with their parents were already gathered on the red-checkered carpet, where a quiet murmur of conversation could be heard.

“Who?” one of the twins said, sounding smarmy. Dean internally agreed with him.

Right on cue, the employees-only door at the back opened, and out walked—

“Cas,” Dean said quietly, surprised, the same time as the twins shrieked and screamed, “CAS!!!”

They shook off their father’s hands and sprinted, half-falling half-flying, over to Castiel before tackling him in a hug. Like unlocking a dam, the room’s volume suddenly cranked up to eleven, and all the other children took their cues and ran towards Castiel, who was—smiling, and laughing, and speaking calmly, ruffling their hair and handing out high-fives.

“Now, now,” he said, his voice so low it seemed to pierce through the high, excited babbles of the crowd. “Let’s quiet down a little. Remember, this is a library.” He pressed a finger to his lips, and all the other kids mimicked him with hums and stifled giggles.

So  _ this  _ was what Castiel did in the evenings at work. Dean watched Castiel seamlessly work with the children, and felt himself fall, impossibly, just a little bit more in love.

After getting them to settle down, Castiel walked over to the display on the biggest shelf in the Children’s Section—DR. SUESS, it read in huge, bubbly construction-paper letters taped across the wall.

“Tonight, we are going to read Dr. Seuss,” he said.

Somebody’s hand shot up.

“Yes, Amelia?”

“Is he a real doctor?”

Castiel smiled. “No,” he said. “But his father wanted him to be one, so he called himself Doctor while writing these books to make him happy.”

“Ooohh,” Amelia said.

“Any more questions?”

Another hand shot up.

“Yes, Cameron?”

“Dr. Seuss writes the stories,” said a tiny voice carrying all the booming confidence only a six-year old could have. “But someone else draws the pictures. They’re called the ill-agator.”

Castiel smiled at him, too. “You’re correct, Cameron,” he said. “They’re called the  _ illustrator,  _ which is just a fancy name for someone who draws. And—surprise!—Dr. Seuss was so talented that he was actually the illustrator for his own books.”

“Woah!” Cameron said.

“I’m going to be a comic book illustrator!” another voice piped up, accompanied with a hand shooting into the air.

“Really?” Castiel said solemnly. “That’s wonderful, Alice. I’ve seen your drawings, so I know that you’re already well on your way.”

Alice giggled and squirmed. “Thanks, Cas.”

“Now, if there are no more questions, I’m going to begin reading,” Castiel said. Right as he said that, another half-dozen hands flurried up into the air.

“I want to be a writer!”

“What’s a comic book?”

“I need to pee!” (Followed up with Castiel giving the boy’s mother the directions to the washroom.)

“What’s on your tie?”

“I want to be like  _ you,  _ Cas!”

“Who’s that man standing over there?”

“What?” Castiel said, and followed the pudgy pointed finger over to where Dean was standing.

“Fu—fudge,” Dean said, and waved. “Hi.”

Castiel looked befuddled. “Dean? What are you doing here?”

Painfully aware of the dozens of tiny beady little eyes drilling right into him, Dean shifted on his feet and grinned sheepishly. “What, I can’t visit the library now?”

“You never come at this time,” Castiel pointed out.

Dean shrugged, and, suddenly tapping in on some previously-undiscovered reserve of courage from out of nowhere, said, “Maybe I just wanted to see you again.”

“Oh,” Castiel said.

“He  _ likes  _ you!” a girl screeched. Dean flinched.

Castiel smiled at the girl, and then at Dean. “And I like him,” he declared, before grabbing a book off of the shelf.

“Now, I think that’s enough questions—can anybody tell me what this book is called? For some strange reason, I cannot seem to read it.” With a small frown on his face, Castiel squinted at the cover, which was upside down.

The crowd shrieked with laughter and scattered shouts of direction.

“Ah.” Castiel turned the book right-side up. “That’s much better. Thank you. Now, this book is called  _ One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish,  _ written—and illustrated—by Dr. Seuss.”

As he began to read, the group of kids went from bouncing on their toes and giggling to quiet, dwindled, cross-legged murmurs, eyes fixed on Castiel in awe. Castiel read slowly, soothingly, nearly sleepily, his voice rough and gravelly but somehow smooth at the same time.  _ Buttery  _ was the only word Dean could think of, and he would otherwise be appalled at his word choice if he wasn’t also falling into a bit of a trance at the steady cascade of words, easy rhymes and rolling lines falling from Castiel’s lips, which he darted out his tongue and licked every few pages—

From Dean’s pocket, Angus Young started wailing on his guitar.

_ “Fudge,”  _ Dean hissed, and nearly tripped in his haste to make it to one of the study rooms.

“Jesus, Sam, you couldn’t pick a better time?” 

“It’s, like, seven,” Sam’s confused voice rang out from the phone. “Too early for bars and too late for dinner. I’m thinking you’re probably sitting on the couch watching Dr. Hot or something.”

“It’s Dr. Sexy,” Dean corrected him snappily. 

“Whatever,” said Sam. “So, what, you’re out right now?”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

“I—” Dean couldn’t say, Listening to someone read  _ One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish. _ He would quite literally rather die than tell Sam he was listening to someone read  _ One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish.  _ “Nevermind. What’s up?”

“Okay then,” Sam said slowly, skepticism in every syllable. “Anyway, I called because of Mom. I have a few days’ break before my next semester, so she wanted us to all get together at your place.”

“Wait, what?” Dean said. “When?  _ What?” _

“She just called me, like, five minutes ago,” Sam said. “And they were hoping to catch a flight by Friday.”

“Friday,” Dean said, pressing a hand against the wall for stability. “That’s tomorrow.”

“I know what day it is,” Sam said. “And, you know what’s  _ really  _ interesting, Dean?”

“What?” Dean said faintly, not knowing if he wanted to know.

“When she called me, she also told me that she originally wasn’t going to visit until Family Day, but then she called you. Then she was so  _ happy _ for you that she just had to book a flight, because she was just so  _ excited _ to finally see your new boyfriend, Cas the librarian.”

“Oh,” Dean said, feeling like he’d suddenly lost the grip on a wakeboarding rope twenty feet up in the air and was now plummeting into reality.

“So, what do you think?” Sam was saccharine-sweet and cherry-pie cheerful and Dean was going to vomit any second now.

“Why the hell didn’t she call me first before deciding to all meet up at my place, that’s what I think,” Dean hissed.

“We always get together at your place. It’s in between Stanford and their house.”

“Right,” Dean breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“My question is,” Sam said, his voice suddenly ratcheting up with curiosity, “When _I_ called, you said nothing about this Cas guy, whom you supposedly have been seeing for three months.”

“Oh, fudge,” Dean muttered, and then realized he was in a soundproofed study room. “Fuck me sideways with a stick.” He shut his eyes and banged his forehead against the wall and heard Sam’s muffled laughter from the phone.

“I’m guessing he isn’t your boyfriend at all, then?” Sam said after he’d finally regained his voice, and Dean had a nice ache forming in his temples.

“No,” Dean said sullenly, and banged his head some more while Sam laughed like the asshole he was.

“But you want him to be?”

“I,” Dean said, and then paused as a cacophony of children’s laughter streamed in, even through the soundproofed windows. “Maybe.”

“Jesus Christ, Dean,” and how could Sam sound  _ amused  _ at a time like this? “And you call me hopeless. Once again—hypocrite.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean muttered.

“So how long have you  _ actually  _ known him for?”

“Three months,” Dean said. “That part was true.”

Sam huffed an incredulous laugh. “Seriously, dude? Just ask him out.”

“I  _ can’t, _ ” Dean said, resigning himself to the fate of slowly becoming an angst-riddled teenage girl. “What if he’s not interested?”

“Then you say, ‘alright’, and go back to being whatever the hell you two are right now.”

“It’s not that easy,” Dean sulked.

“Yes, Dean, it is,” Sam said in what Dean dubbed as his therapist-voice, “because  _ I  _ asked Jess out today at dinner, and she said yes, and if she said no, I would’ve said ‘alright’ and went back to being friends.”

And despite everything, Dean had to smirk. “Attaboy, Sammy,” he cooed. “You takin’ her to meet Mom and Dad?”

“This isn’t about me,” Sam said, quickly diverting the topic—Dean’s smirk turned into a grin. “What I’m saying is, if I can do it, you can too.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dean said, and grinned harder. “You sayin’ I’m better at you than everything?”

Sam stalled. “Whatever,” he said, and there was that bitchface voice again, and maybe Dean did miss his stupid face, after all, so maybe it was nice that he’d get to see him tomorrow. “Just ask him out, okay? It’ll be fine.”

“Alright, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam.”

“Alright, Sammy.”

“Ugh. Just go already.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And  _ don’t  _ do the hot coffee thing. Seriously—it’s not a good line.”

Dean laughed. “I know,” he said, and then hung up on Sam before he could say anything else.

Castiel was in the middle of an enthralling retelling about how he would not eat it on a box, would not eat it on a fox, would not eat it with a mouse, would not eat it in a house, so Dean deigned to meandering through the various aisles of books while waiting for Castiel to finish his hate speech on green eggs and ham.

He wandered up and down the Adult Fiction section, then moved to Historical Fiction, then Nonfiction, then—finally—right back to the Teen Fiction aisle, where he dragged a finger along the spines of pink-and-green book covers and tried to settle his nerves, which were ricocheting all over the place like pachinko balls at a casino.

“I do so like green eggs and ham,” Castiel called out from his rocking chair. “Thank you, thank you, Sam I Am. The End.” There was a resounding  _ thwap!  _ as he shut the book, followed by a smattering of applause. “Now, can anyone tell me what the moral of this story was?”

“What’s a moral?”

“A moral means the message of a story,” Castiel explained. “Something important that may be useful to us readers. Yes, Thomas?”

“Try new things,” Thomas blurted out.

“Very good,” Castiel praised. “Can anyone explain to me why that is? Alice?”

“You didn’t like green eggs and ham, but you never tried them, so how do you know? But after you tried them, you actually  _ liked  _ them!”

“Exactly,” Castiel said. “The moral of this story is to try new things. How will you know what will happen if you never try?”

Maybe Dr. Seuss was pretty damn smart, Dean thought.

From there, the conversation splintered into snatches of excited anecdotes from the kids. Some parents rose with cracking knees and winces, grabbing their children’s hands as they exited the Children’s Centre, where Castiel remained in his rocking chair, idly chatting with the kids staying behind.

“Why are you spying on Cas?” a small, angry voice said.

Dean whirled around to see a squinty-eyed little boy with his hands on his hips. “What?” he said vaguely. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes you were!” The boy—Cameron, Dean suddenly remembered, he was that spunky kid from earlier—scowled.

“Look,” Dean said, trying to placate him before things got out of hand. “My name’s Dean. You’re Cameron, right?”

“Yeah,” Cameron said, voice dripping with suspicion. “And  _ you _ were spying on Cas! You were  _ spying  _ on him like a  _ creep!” _

“Woah,” Dean said, holding up his hands, “Let’s not get overzealous here.”

Cameron narrowed his eyes. “What’s that mean?”

“Uhh,” Dean said, “It means, let’s be calm.”

Cameron stamped his foot. “No! Why were you spying on Cas? Do you want to kill him and take him to your secret lair?”

“Holy—” What the hell were they showing kids these days? “No! I just—I was just.” Cameron regarded him balefully, and Dean, frantic, blurted, “I like him, okay?”

Cameron stared at Dean, a little furrow between his mini eyebrows. Dean thought, What the hell, he was having this conversation with a six-year old. “I want to, uh. Hang out with him.”

“Like a friend?”

“No. More than that.”

The fog cleared in Cameron’s hazel eyes. “Oh! You want to  _ kiss  _ him!”

Oh, sweet Jesus. “Yeah,” Dean said weakly. Dismayed. God, where was this kid’s parents?

“Well, that’s _easy,_ ” Cameron said, and he was suddenly grinning, now, slipping his hand into Dean’s so fluidly Dean hadn’t even noticed, tugging him towards the Children’s Centre.

“Hey, hold your horses,” Dean said. “I’m not—I’m not ready yet.”

Cameron bitchfaced at Dean, and for an instant Dean was starkly reminded of Sam at his age—floppy-haired and chubby cheeks and so, so whiny. “You’re here, aren’t you? What are you missing?”

Dean faltered, and then shook his head and let his breath out in a light, hysterical laugh.

“You know what, squirt,” he said, squeezing the tiny hand in his, “You’re right. Lead the way.”

Halfway to the centre, Dean watched as Castiel suddenly raised a finger at the girl he was talking to at the moment, before getting up from his rocking chair and exiting through the employee door.

“He’s going to the washroom,” Cameron explained, and Dean wanted to say  _ How the hell did you know that  _ but was too busy trying very, very hard not to think about how he had a six-year old as a wingman.

“Hey!” There were only a few kids left, now, and a blonde pigtailed girl gasped when she saw Dean. “You’re the creepy stalker!”

Dean cast his eyes to the ceiling and prayed. “I’m not a stalker, I promise,” he said.

“He’s not,” Cameron said, and Dean thought, God bless. Then, Cameron’s voice pitched upwards with glee and he yelled, “He has a  _ crush  _ on Cas!”

At the C-word, every single pair of beady little eyes immediately swivelled and affixed onto Dean. 

“Ooohhhh,” they said with terrifying synchrony. An onslaught of excited voices and laughter filled the air. One of them began to sing,  _ Dean and Ca-as sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.  _

Dean was going to jump out the window.

There were half a dozen tiny little hands on him, suddenly, yanking at his sleeves and tugging on his fingers. Dean, out of an instinctual panic, was too distracted with trying not to  _ step  _ on a stray hand or foot on the carpet, that he didn’t realize he had been shepherded until he was firmly shoved down into a chair so small his legs couldn’t fit under the table.

Desperately, he cast his eyes around to communicate his SOS signal to one of the parents idling by the sidelines. They were either cooing over their children’s suggestions for declarations of love, or looking like they were having way too much fun watching Dean struggle. He caught the gaze of the dad he’d seen earlier, the one with the twins, who just grinned at him.

“You need to write him a love letter,” a little girl said with the utmost confidence, already scribbling away at a piece of paper with a red crayon. “But don’t worry, I’m going to draw it for you, because I’m the best at drawing.”

“Thanks, kid,” Dean muttered, something inside him softening because c’mon, he was surrounded by cute kids and Dean did have a heart. In fact, he realized, he was smiling. 

He studied the rest of them, all chattering and bouncing like little sugar-high meerkats, and grinned. “What else do you think I should do, guys?”

It was like slicing his finger open in a shark tank.

Suggestions hurdled through the air. “Make him a cake!”

“Sing him a song!”

“Buy him a pretty dress!”

“No, dummy, Cas is a  _ boy,  _ he can’t wear a dress!”

“He can still wear one!”

“Maybe  _ Dean  _ can wear the dress!”

“When are you getting married?” (This, in particular, was like dumping a gallon of blood into the tank and the whole room exploded in shrieks.)

“Here!” The girl shoved the piece of paper to Dean, along with a broken, slightly-sweaty crayon. “I don’t know how to spell  _ crush  _ so you’ll have to write it yourself.”

“Alright,” Dean said mildly, taking in the indistinguishable scrawls on the front of the folded paper. There appeared to be a heart somewhere where it could reasonably be called in the middle, and maybe a few stars here and there, all topped up with a healthy slew of scribbles.

He opened the card up. “What should I write? Any suggestions?”

He winced at the barrage of yells. “Alright, alright, settle down,” he said, and then a lightbulb went off in his head. “Remember? This is a library.”

He pressed a finger to his lips, and was utterly delighted when everyone immediately did the same. And, okay, maybe he melted a little, too, because goddamn these kids were adorable.

“One at a time,” he decided, and picked by pointing.

_ “I love you,” _ the first kid immediately said.

Dean winced. “Maybe not so soon.”

The kid’s mouth dropped open. “Why not? Do you not love him?”

“Yeah, Dean, do you not love him?” Half a dozen pairs of beady, accusing eyes turned towards him, big and sad and shocked.

Dean gritted his teeth and scrawled down,  _ I like you. _

“That’s not  _ I love you!”  _ someone said, peering at the paper.

“Fffff—udge,” Dean whispered, and rewrote it.

Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all. “Okay, that’s enough,” he declared.

The chorus of enraged, betrayed eyes cranked up to eleven. “You didn’t let  _ us  _ go yet!”

Dean sprouted off every single curse word he knew inside his head until he was black and blue and resigned himself to surrender. “Alright, then. Who’s next?”

“Write  _ I like your eyes,”  _ the next one suggested, which, okay, wasn’t bad. Dean scribbled it down.

_ “I want to kiss you!”  _ the next one said, and the whole room squealed with laughter. Dean felt his traitor mouth begin to tug into a smile as he wrote it down, right below  _ I like your eyes. _

Some suggestions made Dean blush, others made him laugh, and all of them he dutifully copied down, all the way until he ran out of space on the paper.

“I think we’re pretty much done here,” he announced, holding up the card and moving it around so everyone could see.

“It’s perfect!” they yelled, and kept right on giggling. They just didn’t stop giggling, Dean thought, and felt one bubble up inside him, too, buoyant and giddy. “He’s going to love it!”

“I sure hope so,” Dean said, playing along. He stood up from the chair and felt bones crack that he didn’t know existed.

“Thanks, everyone,” he continued, crossing his fingers and slowly moving towards the exit. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Wait!” Cameron shouted. “You didn’t give it to Cas yet!”

_ Damn  _ it, Dean thought, and said, as a last-ditch effort, “But he isn’t here.”

“Yes, I am,” said Castiel, and Dean watched as the kids swivelled their heads, en masse, towards the employee door behind him. 

“What’s going on?” Castiel inquired. Dean turned around to see him with his head tilted slightly, his eyes scanning the children and then flicking back to Dean.

“Uh,” Dean said.

For the  _ one  _ time he wanted them to, all the kids were as silent as a ghost. With the occasional uncontainable giggle.

He felt a plethora of little hands on his back, pushing him towards Castiel, and, not wanting to stumble and trip and accidentally squash one of them, relented and stepped forwards.

“I, uh,” Dean muttered, holding the letter in his hands.

Castiel’s eyes fell upon it. “What’s that?”

Face aflame, Dean just held it out to him.

Carefully, as if it were a grenade, Castiel took it. He raised his eyebrows at the cover, a gentle smile playing across his face.

“Did you draw this, Alice?” he said.

Alice just nodded, still wordless. Not even a giggle anymore—it was as if the entire room was holding their breath.

Including Dean, and Castiel unfolded the paper and read every line, from top to bottom.

_ I love you. _

_ I like your eyes. _

_ I want to kiss you. _

_ I want to hug you. _

_ I want to eat cake with you. _

_ I want to dance with you. _

_ I want to go travelling to Paris with you and see the lavender flowers. _

_ I want to ride a horse with you. A big one, not a pony. _

_ I want to drink hot chocolate with you. _

_ I want to watch movies with you. _

_ I want to play LEGOs with you. _

_ I like your hair, even though it’s always so messy. _

_ I like your smile. _

_ Dear Cas, _

_ These are all the things the kids told me to write down, so I obliged. Here are my own words, now, unedited and without suggestion: _

_ I think you’re cute and I would love to get to know you better. Have dinner with me?  _

_ Love, _

_ Dean _

_ P.S. I may have accidentally lied to my mom and told her we were dating. I’ve been crushing on you for a while, now, so you were the first person I thought of. Sorry if that’s creepy. Cameron called me a creep, and maybe he’s right. But anyway, my mom’s flying in tomorrow to visit, along with my brother and my dad. No pressure if you say no—I can easily come up with an excuse—but I just thought you should know. _

_ P.P.S. Even though those were suggestions from the kids, they were all true—at least to some extent. I’d love to try all those things with you, if you would have me. _

Castiel looked up at Dean and his eyes were a bright, bright blue and he said,  _ “Dean.” _

Dean said, “Is that a yes, or—”

Castiel surged forwards to kiss him and all the kids yelled  _ EWWWWWW  _ and covered their eyes and ran away screaming and Dean was smiling so hard he could hardly kiss him back. He twined a hand around Cas’s waist and ran a hand through Cas’s messy hair and was so happy he was going to burst right through the ceiling.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know where this came from. I just sat down and started writing and spewed out 7k of ridiculously fluffy fluff. I had so much fun though, and I hope you had fun reading it, too ^^
> 
> Let me know your thoughts! <333


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